


pancakes

by HighkeyRedacted



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Belly Kink, Established Relationship, Kink Exploration, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Someone kill me, belly stuffing, borderline force feeding, clothed grinding, no fucking in this fic technically but it's implied, stuffing kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighkeyRedacted/pseuds/HighkeyRedacted
Summary: Pete wakes up to the smell of breakfast.





	pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A STUFFING FIC. THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK. THIS IS NOT REFLECTIVE OF THE PEOPLE IT IS WRITTEN ABOUT. GET OFF OF MY DICK. 
> 
> anyways I'm sorry Jesus

Pete wakes up to the smell of breakfast.

Usually, this wouldn’t be weird. Today it _is_ , and for a moment, Pete thinks it’s still the night before, and that, like an idiot, he fell asleep during a Session.

But no, he thinks then, frowning as his memories flood back, he _definitely_ remembers the way Patrick looked last night as he carefully tipped back his head and let Pete shove half the last piece of cake into his mouth, smearing the red velvet crumbs all over his rosy cheeks. So, that means they did finish, and it’s morning.

Less weird, admittedly, but why would Patrick be cooking now when he should, by all logic, still be conked the fuck out in a food coma? Following the scent, Pete rolls out of the empty bed (noticing dimly that the mess from the night before is completely gone, everything all tidied up) and wanders downstairs. 

Pete’s blown back by the doughy scent of pancakes when he enters the kitchen. Any sleep that may have lingered in his mind is immediately gone once he takes in the scene before him. Patrick is hovering over the stove, shockingly already out of his pyjamas; his button down is straining against his still-packed belly, and his jeans look almost painfully tight. Pete has no doubt that there's marks underneath the denim, waiting for him to run his fingers across as they continue their game from last night, and the thought is incredibly inviting.

But Patrick seems to have other plans.

"Good morning," Patrick says expectantly, lips quirking at the corners. Pete hums his response, eyes trained on the pancakes bubbling on the stove as he sits at the island. He cocks a brow at Patrick, tilting his head in the direction of the stove.

"If you wanted to keep playing in the morning, you shoulda just said so last night, babe," Pete says, smirking. "You could've slept in and I would've woken you up with breakfast in bed." 

"Ah," Patrick responds, "That does sound appealing, trust me. But--" Patrick pauses, lifting two pancakes out of the pan and plopping them on an already large stack he has ready on the counter. "These aren't for me."

"They're not?" Pete asks, incredulous. Patrick shakes his head, diving into the fridge to retrieve the butter and syrup.

"Nope." Patrick sets a fork and knife on the plate, sliding it down the smooth countertop to stop just in front of Pete. The syrup and butter follow soon after, coasting to a halt innocently in front of him. "They're for _you_. Your turn."

Pete's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, eyeing the fairly sizeable stack Patrick has just put in front of him. Patrick stops, leaning on the counter carefully to meet his gaze lovingly.

"It's only if you want to. Don't feel forced, I'm more than happy to eat them and keep the game going on my end." Patrick states, fingers curling over Pete's wrist. Pete's eyes wander from Patrick's warm, concerned face and down to his belly, still as thick and stuffed as it was last night. He then looks down at his own body, and the way his stomach barely even curves away from him.

He decides then and there that he needs to know what this is like.

"I can do it." He says simply. Patrick grins, leaning forward and smashing their lips together, positively sinful. Pulling back with a teasing pat on his cheek, Patrick looks him up and down, biting his lip.

"Colour?" He asks.

"Green." Pete replies.

"Safeword?"

"Do we need both?"

"This is your first time doing this. Yes."

"Fine, Chicago."

"Good boy," Patrick hums, the praise rolling easily off his tongue. Pete feels a shiver run down his spine at his words, and his pyjama pants feel just a little bit tighter. He swallows hard, picking up his fork. He waits for the word from Patrick, eyes trained on his breakfast with poorly masked anticipation. Patrick smirks at him, picking up the bowl of batter once more to continue cooking.

"Go." He says simply.

And Pete listens.

He starts off with gusto; he slathers butter all over the top pancake and then pours thick maple syrup over it, unable to look away as everything drips down the sides to hit the plate, tantalizing and slow. Patrick has his back turned to him, facing the stove and his work, but Pete doesn't miss the way his head jerks to the left, peering over his shoulder just as Pete cuts his first chunk off the stack and shovels it into his mouth. He makes a scene of it, really, cutting the chunk just a bit too big to ensure that he gets syrup on the corners of his lips. A small part of him hopes Patrick will turn to lick it off; Pete supposes he'll just have to be as messy as possible to guarantee it.

The stack Patrick had given him already had four fluffy, perfect pancakes on it, and Pete tears through them like they're nothing. Pete has to admit to himself, for a first timer, he is fucking _killing_ it. He can't stop a soft moan from slipping out as he feels syrup slowly dribble down his chin, sticky and slow. With an uncoordinated hand, he swipes the trail away, slipping his finger into his mouth and catching Patrick's eye again. Patrick's cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are wide. Pete guesses he's doing something right.

Patrick turns back to face him, a stack of six more pancakes in his hand. His eyes roam over Pete's body, fascinated, and as if he's never seen anything quite like it (which, Pete guesses, is likely true, because he's used to being the one who gets stuffed). Patrick's eyes hover just at the edge of the island, and Pete takes the hint to lean back and pause, just for the moment, to let Patrick see the damage. For the first time, he looks down himself, and fuck, he's got no idea why he hadn't done this earlier than today.

His belly has bowed out from him considerably, a good three inches from where it usually blends with his chest. His breathing has been growing shallow as he's getting fuller. Patrick licks his lips, leaning across the counter again and reaching over to Pete. Tentatively, his fingertips brush the side of Pete's belly, and Pete groans softly, his eyes fluttering shut. It feels fucking good.

"Colour?" Patrick murmurs, voice husky. Pete looks up, pupils blown. He feels weirdly distant, like he's high on something as he sizes up the stack Patrick has set aside on the other plate. His eyes wander back down to his own belly, his hand coming to rest on the unusual swell of it. He's full, yeah, but not uncomfortably so. He meets Patrick's gaze, eyes half lidded and mind drifting into a headspace he didn't know he had.

"Green." He says, voice airy. Smiling at him once again, Patrick tips the stack onto Pete's newly cleared plate. Pete reaches for the butter and syrup in a daze, transfixed as he watches it slip down the sides again before diving in with his knife and fork once more, slower now.

At this pace, Pete realizes, for the first time, how fucking amazing this all feels. He's always been the one feeding Patrick, watching him demolish insane amounts of food, watching his clothes get tight and his belly get round, watching him love every second. Until today, he hasn't really thought about how it might be like to be the one getting stuffed, to be so goddamn full yet not full enough at the same time.

It's fucking incredible.

They're taking turns from now on.

Pete's brought back to reality again by Patrick pressing up against his back, warm hands suddenly coming to rest on his hips from behind and squeezing. His breath ghosts over Pete's neck and he freezes, groaning low in his throat around the food in his mouth.

"Keep goin', don't let me stop you," Patrick murmurs, hot and low, and directly beside Pete's ear. He presses a kiss to his temple, followed by his cheekbone and neck, as his hands snake forward to scratch his blunt fingernails along the sensitive skin of Pete's belly. In a trance, Pete shudders, then obeys Patrick's words and takes another bite.

Patrick's hands and mouth roam all over Pete's upper body, earning him shivers and quiet moans as Pete fights to work his way through the rest of his pancakes. He's got syrup on the corners of his mouth, and gently, Patrick tips his head back and swipes at it with his thumb, looking Pete in the eyes as he teasingly licks it off. Pete keens, letting his head fall forwards again. One of his hands joins Patrick's hands where they're rubbing his stomach, acutely feeling the slight ache beneath his taut skin (not to mention the different ache a little farther down). He takes as deep a breath he can in his current state, setting his fork down on the counter.

"Colour?" Patrick asks, concerned. Pete groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Yellow," Pete replies, "I don't think I can get the rest done on my own." Patrick nods, eyeing up what's left on Pete's plate. Three pancakes remain, spongy and moist from the butter and syrup having melted in. Four more sit on a separate plate, waiting to be devoured. He turns to Pete, gently resting his hand on the side of his face.

"What do you want to do?" He asks. Pete sits back, pushing out his chair slightly.

"Keep going," Pete says, his breaths laboured. "Feed it to me. I'll tell you if I've gotta stop." Patrick nods again, nudging Pete's chair back a little farther. Gingerly, he hops up to sit on the island in front of Pete, and moves the plate so it's resting in his lap.

Surprisingly, the first few mouthfuls Patrick feeds him are careful, and delicate. If not for Pete being stuffed out of his mind already, and his eyes being level with Patrick's already groaning jeans button, it would almost be sweet. But this was sweet in a very fucking different way, and Pete barely has time to contemplate it before Patrick gets less gentle, and more impatient.

"Pay attention, Pete," Patrick says, tapping his cheek with the pancake piece on the end of the fork. His voice is low, and commanding. Pete feels like he's on a different planet, where only Patrick and the remaining food matter, and nothing else at all. He meets Patrick's gaze, brain fuzzy, and accepted the bite obediently. Patrick smiles in response, patting his cheek before loading the fork back up.

Pete robotically takes each bite, and Patrick murmurs to him as he feeds him more. Words of praise, how big he is, how good he is, and every word skips the registry part of Pete's brain and shoots straight to his dick. There's not much else that is important at that point, anyways; just finishing and being good for Patrick. Pete closes his eyes and groans into a too-big mouthful, completely in his body as he feels syrup trail from the corner of his mouth, down, down until it drips onto his chest. He swallows with difficulty, and Patrick leans down, grabbing his sticky jaw and forcing Pete to dazedly meet his eyes.

"There's only one more left," Patrick says. "Colour?" It takes a moment for Pete to form his thoughts, too busy panting and trying to think about anything but full so full.

"Green."

Patrick smirks, and pushes the chair Pete's sitting on backwards.

Patrick has dropped down from the counter in an instant, moving to straddle Pete's lap. This close, because of the little island chair, Patrick is essentially pressed flush to Pete. Pete glances down to find Patrick's still stuffed-fat belly smushed against Pete's, and they're completely blocking his view of both their hard-ons, and that's unreasonably fucking hot and all of this combined is making Pete feel like he's on Cloud fucking Nine, he's _never_ been this turned on before.

Patrick cuts the first chunk of the final pancake off, smearing it around in the puddle of syrup that's left on the plate. He wastes no time bringing it to Pete's lips, shoving insistently and making his lips even stickier. Pete moans low in his throat, chewing it with difficulty. He's barely swallows when Patrick tips more into his mouth, grinding down on him slightly and murmuring words that are almost unintelligible through the thick fog of Pete's mind. Distantly, he thinks, that this is the best non-sex he's ever had, and he's pretty fucking sure Patrick feels the same way.

Pete finishes in five huge bites, chewing the last one slowly, to savour the sugary sweet taste. To taunt Patrick, he tilts his head back as he swallows. It has the intended effect; as soon as Pete's finished, Patrick growls, and starts kissing and sucking on his neck. Pete sighs brokenly, as Patrick blindly sets the empty plate and fork on the counter behind him, and then brings both his hands down to squeeze Pete's sides,

"So fucking good," Patrick breathes against Pete's throat, "so fucking good for me, Pete." He leans back to rest his hands fully on Pete's stomach, which prompts Pete to look down at it and good fucking god. He never thought he'd be able to take so much on his first ever attempt, but his belly has to be sticking out a good six inches from the usual. His mouth falls open, and Patrick's takes the opportunity to surge forward and attack Pete's lips.

Grinding down again, Patrick draws a shaky moan from Pete, and he licks the syrup off his bottom lip. Pete can barely reciprocate, too full and too caught up in every fucking feeling at once to manage much but resting one hand on Patrick's belly and one on his own. They make out, hot and heavy, as Patrick interjects words of praise and promises of absolute filth that make shivers run down Pete's spine.

"Do you-" Patrick mutters, "think-- you can get upstairs?"

"No," Pete replies immediately. Patrick nods, looking around the kitchen briefly before grinning at Pete with dark eyes.

"Okay," he says, rolling his hips against Pete's and pressing them even closer together, "This right now is good, then."

Pete could not fucking agree more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on my horrible tumblr, @kinkfob ;)


End file.
